


Every Path You Know

by Amodelofefficiency



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 00:39:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12971898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amodelofefficiency/pseuds/Amodelofefficiency
Summary: Seven small children and one widowed doctor, thought Jean. She’d need God on her side every step of the way. [Sound of Music AU]





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Because every fandom needs a Sound of Music AU, and apparently writing nun-Jean is my thing. For Jess and Analiesa and Chelsea and the crew. I cannot believe you talked me into this 

_“Seven children?_ ”

Jean sank back into her chair, trying to picture what a house with seven small children running all over the place might look like. A disaster, no doubt. Loud and chaotic and disorganised. She’d been prepared for a challenge when approached by the Reverend Mother about an opening for a governess. But  _seven_   _children?_  How on earth could one keep track of them?

Mother Abbess fixed her with a pointed look. “Yes, Jean. The Doctor and his wife were very generous when they returned from the war, they took in many of the local orphans to raise as their own.”

“Of course, Reverend Mother,” she murmured.  _Seven._  It would take her the better part of a week to remember them all.

“The Doctor is well thought of in town, Jean. It was a sad day when his wife passed. He’s been searching for an adequate housekeeper for some time now.”

“Adequate?” Jean could feel an eyebrow arch without her bidding. She had to get that under control. There were already rumblings in the convent about her ‘spirited’ attitude.

The Reverend Mother peered down at her, “I think you’ll be good for the Blake family, Jean. I think they may be good for you.”

It wasn’t the first time the Reverend Mother had spoken this way, her kind eyes fixed on Jean with something sad but hopeful. Ever since Jean had first wandered through the convent doors, guitar strapped to her back and a song on her lips that was quickly silenced by a glare from the sisters she’d been treated this way. Like there was a problem inside her that need to be solved or fixed. She so desperately wanted to be normal.

Maybe this was her chance.

“If it is God’s will,” Jean told her, trying to sound hopeful. “Then I will go.”

The Reverend Mother smiled. “Bless you, child.”

Seven small children and one widowed doctor, Jean thought. She’d need God on her side every step of the way.


	2. Confidence in sunshine, confidence in rain

Jean stood by the brick pillars at the gate of the Blake residence, taking in the house that was to be her home over the coming months with a sense of excitement and dread. 

The house was deceptively small from the outside, the front gates opening to reveal a driveway that lead to a front porch surrounded by overgrown flowerbeds. There were empty hangers dangling by the door and the surprising absence of anything that would indicate children  – no bikes or toys cluttering the driveway, not even a cricket bat on the front lawn. 

Bathed in early morning light the house seemed completely silent but Jean stood watching the front door with anticipation, as if any moment it might spring open and seven loud children would come tumbling out. 

She’d heard stories about the Blake household. Though the Doctor was respected around town as a capable physician his temperament was less certain  – there were whispers of drunken tirades in town and nights when he didn’t come home while out chasing criminals. And they’d not been able to keep a governess or housekeeper for more than a few weeks  – the children making it impossible for some to last even the day. 

But Jean was determined to not give anyone, not the Mother Superior, the nuns at the convent or the Blake children themselves the satisfaction of running her out of the house  – even if it meant she had to chain herself to the front porch. 

If only determination would stop the sick curl of anxiety in her stomach. 

“Seven children,” she murmured, resting her fingers on the old brass plate that bore the doctor’s name and title. She glanced at the engraving affixed to the pillar as if the man himself might hear her. “What on earth were you thinking, Doctor Blake?”

A light flickered on inside the house, catching Jean’s attention. She picked up her guitar case and bag and shouldered her way through the front gates, whispering a mantra from her childhood as she marched up the driveway. “Confidence, Jean. Confidence in sunshine. Confidence in rain. Confidence in confidence alone.”

The words felt heavy on her tongue but at least they were soothing, reminding her of happier days from her youth when confidence had been easier. She arrived at the front door and took a deep breath, knocking quickly three times and bracing for whatever greeted her. 

After a few moments the door swung open. “Hello, I’m here!”

There was a long pause, the other woman at the door seemingly lost for words at finding her there.

Jean faltered. Was this the correct house? She’d seen the doctor’s name engraved on the brass plaque at the entrance. But what on earth was a woman doing here so early, dressed in a tan coat and holding a bundle of files? Had she been replaced before she’d even begun and they’d found another housekeeper already? 

“I’m from the convent,” she explained further, “I’m the new housekeeper, Mrs...?” she trailed off, hoping the other woman would introduce herself.

“It’s doctor, actually.”

_ Oh? No. That couldn’t correct.  _

“Doctor Harvey.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Jean. That was much better. “Well, how do you do?”   
  
The other woman smiled, a curious but broad grin that felt odd for such a stilted introduction in the early morning. “Doctor Blake is in his study, but I’m sure if you wait in the foyer he’ll be ready in a moment,” she told Jean, “I best be off.”

She pushed passed Jean out the front door, setting off down the driveway towards the gates with a quick stride. Jean watched her pass through the gates before turning back to the open door, glancing down inside the quiet house. 

There was a long hallway with a closed door to her left and a small foyer to her right  – for patients, she presumed. The doctor’s surgery must be just beyond that. She rested her guitar case and bag by the door and set her hat on the table. There was a long coat hung from a peg on the wall with an assortment of hats and scarves, some smaller than the rest and belonging to the children. Seven pairs of black boots were lined up beside the skirting board, and Jean couldn’t help but smile  – despite their number they did look sweet lined up from large to small; like tiny toy soldiers. 

Would all things in this house be so ordered, she wondered? Surely not, that would be almost impossible with so many children. She’d spent many hours at the orphanage and nothing stayed organised or in place for more than a moment.

But the more she looked around the house  – the neat line of the rug on the floor and the lack of noise at a time when most children would by rising  – the more she felt a strange sense of absence. Ignoring the surgery foyer she walked quietly down the hallway that lead into the house, noting the stairway that lead upstairs on her left and the entrance to the kitchen on the right – even here the house was tidy, eight chairs tucked neatly around the kitchen table and no sign of wayward plates or dishes. Someone had done a good job tidying the night before. 

She followed the hallway around a bend and came across a large set of double doors, a key with a red ribbon still sitting in the keyhole and one side of the door nudged slightly ajar. Perhaps here she would find signs of life – a children’s playroom, or a studio. Something that told her people  _ lived _ here. Surely the children had to be somewhere?

She pushed at the door, careful not to make a noise in case they were still asleep, but instead of slumbering children or toys Jean was met with the sight of what once must have been an art studio, the high wooden beams running along the roof bathed in grey early morning light and dust swirling towards the ceiling. Jean breathed in deeply, the air heavy with the scent of paint and something musty, as if over time the oils had seeped into the wood itself. While the rest of the house had been strangely silent, this room felt like an aberration completely – something removed from time and space but breathtaking in its undisturbed beauty. 

There were paintings across most surfaces and an old fireplace on one side. Nobody had touched this room in decades, she supposed, the furniture covered in white cloth, dust and cobwebs. The sun filtered into the room in defined slabs of light through the curtains, and as Jean glanced up the light caught on something gold and glimmering on the ceiling – gold paint or leaf that had been caught up there in shimmering speckles.

Jean stepped into the room, keen to pick up one of the paintings to study further, but a sharp noise echoed behind her – a voice clearing from the doorway.

Jean spun around, cheeks burning with shame at being caught.

“In future, please remember that certain rooms in this house are not to be entered.”

The doctor was tall, with ashen blond hair and a trimmed beard that gave him an air of academia while his broad chest and stance hinted at the military. But Jean couldn’t look past his eyes; their brilliant blue hindered by bloodshot rims and something that made her chest ache.  _ Had he slept lately _ , she wondered, heart still beating loud in her chest. He looked exhausted – like he’d been up all night. 

“Yes, doctor, sir,” she responded, stepping from the room to stand before him in the hallway. He was scruffy – the top of his shirt undone despite his buttoned vest; his sleeves rolled tight to his elbows. If Doctor Harvey had just visited perhaps they had been working all night? Would that mean he slept through the day, or would he continue on this way? Or was he unwell, she wondered. Could she ask him? 

“Why are you staring at me?” he asked instead. Jean’s gazed snapped back to his eyes. He was frowning – she’d seen that same look on the face of others at the convent, glancing at her as if she were a pest.

“You don’t look like a Doctor,” she told him. His frown deepened. 

“You don’t look like a housekeeper.”

She felt an eyebrow arch. She really had to get a handle on that. 

“And how is a housekeeper supposed to look?” she challenged, startling him.

_ Was he swaying, _ she wondered. As their strange back and forth continued he appeared to be growing more weary, as if a simple breath might knock him backwards despite his solid physique. Was this what the other women meant when they whispered about him? Late nights and a hot temper?  _ Was he drunk _ , she thought with alarm. 

But his voice wasn’t slurred, and he didn’t smell of alcohol. No, it was instead as if something inside had shattered and she’d interrupted him before he’d had time to pick up the pieces. She’d seen men like this after the war – had felt the sharp sting of grief herself all those years ago. How long had it taken her to piece herself back together? It had been years of tiny moments shattering her heart, and even now she still felt cracks on quiet days. The doctor had lost his wife five years ago; his pain would still be raw. 

She took a step towards him, wanting to reach out and steady his shoulder but the doctor swayed back with a harsh glare. “The children will be down any moment. You should put on another dress before meeting them.”

“But I don’t have another,” she objected. “When we enter the convent our worldly clothes go to the poor.”

“What about this one?” he nodded at her, his gaze slipping down her body. For a moment something flickered on his face, but before she could figure it out his gaze had flickered up once more. She felt strangely exposed, like he’d recognised something in her. But that was impossible – she’d only just met the man.

“The poor didn’t want this one, but I can make my own clothes,” she pressed, eager to not be a burden. She was here to ease the strain on the household, not increase it. 

Not that ease had ever been her forte. Trouble followed Jean Beazley like a moth to a flame.  

The doctor seemed to consider her words before nodding, “I’ll see that material is ordered.”

He turned quickly, pausing only a moment to indicate that she should follow before setting off down the hallway and back towards the kitchen. “In summer the children rise at seven sharp for morning exercises – they should be down soon – after that they’ll expect breakfast and then they have morning lessons. I don’t know how much you were told, but you are the twelfth housekeeper to look after the children.” He paused, smoothing his hands down the front of his vest. 

“I trust you will be an improvement on the last – she stayed only two hours.”

Jean frowned, picturing a housekeeper being chased down the driveway by small children. “What’s wrong with the children?” she ventured carefully. 

His gaze, as always, was sharp. “Nothing is wrong with the children, only the housekeepers.”   


_ Of course.  _ Jean sighed.

Before she could speak further the doctor shifted, hands brushing down the front of his vest again. Did he always do that when nervous, she wondered?  

“Their lives….. _ our  _ lives have been messy lately.” He paused, as if weighing up the merits of continuing. Jean waited, biting her tongue to stay silent. “When my wife died the children’s grandfather instilled a great sense of order in the house, but since his passing...I will not let my children dream away their summer holidays, do you understand?”

She didn’t, eager to press him on what he had been about to say before her better judgement got the better of her.

Was this what his life had been like since his father passed – sleepless nights and bloodshot eyes? Blake Senior had been a doctor too. Was his father the one who had ensured the boots at the door were lined neatly and the carpets kept clean? That the children rose for exercises in the morning and completed their study?

No wonder the doctor looked like he was about to collapse with exhaustion. The burden of the household had fallen unexpectedly on his shoulders as he tried to wade through his grief. But they were  _ his _ children, surely they weren’t such a weight?  

“And when do they have time to play?” Jean asked, watching him carefully. 

The doctor paused, weighing his answer. “You will see to it that they conduct themselves with the utmost decorum, Mrs Beazley. You are still Mrs Beazley, correct?”

She faltered, surprised by his question, “Yes. Yes, I haven’t taken my vows yet.”

The doctor nodded. He turned to face her fully and when she looked into his face she saw for a moment something close to warmth and sympathy “I was sorry to hear of your husband’s passing.”

“Thank you. It was a very long time ago.”

Her answer was immediate, even if there were times Christopher’s death still felt like yesterday. 

The doctor nodded as if he understood, but when he spoke his voice was wistful, “They say time heals wounds, but I’m not so sure.” 

She went to answer, but the sudden thump of feet on floorboards startled them both. Jean turned quickly to face the hallway. 

“Utmost decorum, Mrs Beazley,” reminded the doctor. His voice was once again cold. 

Jean listened as seven pairs of feet descended the stairs, her heart pounding. Seven children, all intent on driving the new housekeeper from their home, and now their broken, messy father.

_ Heaven help me. _

  
  



End file.
